


The Island of Eros

by ningloreth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ningloreth/pseuds/ningloreth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On honeymoon on a Greek island, whilst trying to adjust to married life, Hermione and her new husband investigate a disappearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Island of Eros

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the dramionelove fest 2015, using a prompt originally submitted for HP-creatures by **ally_147** : _While on their honeymoon in the Greek Isles, Hermione and her new husband (both Aurors) are pulled into the investigation of a series of Muggle disappearances of which there are no clues or leads except for a strange, ominous singing... Include chocolate, a pair of glasses and a (Muggle) taser._

_Hermione had insisted that they wait until their wedding night—not because she was a prude, for she certainly wasn't, and not because she was a virgin, though she_ was _less experienced than he, but because the Ministry, with its Marriage Law, had simply thrown them together, and that made it especially important, she'd argued, that they do everything_ else _right._

_Malfoy had agreed but, in the three months between their formal betrothal and their wedding, she'd watched him grow more and more short-tempered—snapping at his parents, picking fights with his friends, arguing with her—until she'd seriously considered giving in, and letting him have sex with her..._

**——Sunday——**

“You 'wake?” His lips brushed the back of her neck. “Mmm?” 

“Draco...” she groaned.

“Turn over.” 

“Draco, I'm tired...”

His hand slid up the back of her thigh and, under her nightgown, caressed her behind in a way that made disturbing sensations spread through her entire body.

“Oh, Draco...” She gave in, wriggling onto her back to face him, though she couldn't quite meet his gaze, despite the physical intimacy they'd already shared.

“Mmm,” he sighed, leaning in and nuzzling her breasts. “Yes...”

His hands moved to her hips and, expertly pulling her into position, he entered her with a deep, possessive growl. Then, bracing his arms either side of her, he reared up, and Hermione—honouring her marriage vows—shut her eyes and let him do it, gasping at every vigorous thrust.

Her new husband was totally exhausting.

...

The first few days of their honeymoon disappeared in an orgy of sex, punctuated by her own desperate calls to room service, and by the odd twilight stroll, when the rocky beach was deserted, and the crashing of the waves added an extra _frisson_ to their lovemaking.

**——Wednesday——**

“Draco...” 

Lying on the rocks beneath her husband's rhythmically moving body, Hermione had sensed a presence lurking in the darkness. “Draco, stop a moment!”

“What's wrong?” His hips stilled but, lowering himself onto her and lying skin-to-skin, he began kissing her neck.

“I, um... I thought...” Hermione closed her eyes and listened hard, reaching out with her magic, past her husband's caresses, trying to find whatever it was that had disturbed her, and identify it. “No,” she said. “No, I think it's gone...”

Her husband's hips resumed their motion. 

It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, and Hermione tried to relax into it, looking up, beyond his shoulder, at the millions of stars cast across the wine-dark sky. She recognised Cassiopeia, and Cepheus, and then, above those, curled around Ursa Minor, _Draco_...

Abruptly, she felt the presence return and, with it, something else—the most bittersweet sense of loss, of infinite regret—that seemed to pierce her to the very soul and, with tears welling in her eyes, she heard a song of almost unbearable beauty, its cadences speaking to her of life and love, and of the lure of _death_ —

“Oh my god! _DRACO!_ ” 

She tried to raise her head, to turn and see what was going on behind her, but her struggles only seemed to impale her more deeply upon her husband—and that, in turn, seemed to bring _him_ to fever pitch.

“Yes,” he cried, “yes! Yes! _YYYEEESSS!_ ” 

His thrusts climaxed in a bellow of triumph and, at the same moment, Hermione felt the strangest sensation, as though something inside her—something small and fragile, but vitally important—had fallen into the island's haunting song.

...

“Did you hear it?” she whispered.

“Mmm? Hear what?”

“The singing. I think...”

But her husband, having exhausted even _his_ prodigious sexual energy, had fallen asleep, his face buried in her bosom. 

Absently, she stroked his hair.

_The Ministry had offered Hermione a choice of three pure-blood husbands, and she'd selected Malfoy._

 _She wasn't exactly sure why—_ Better the devil you know, I suppose _, she thought._

 _That, and the fact that he was rich and clever and, if she were going to be forced to marry a man she didn't love, and—_ Let's be honest _—to have to come to some sort of arrangement with him—_ Probably involving mistresses _—she might as well have a man who could talk intelligently, and with whom life would be materially comfortable._

_So far, she hadn't regretted her choice._

_Aside from his insatiable sexual appetite—_ Which shouldn't have been a surprise _, she realised,_ given his reputation at school and in the Auror Office _—he'd been..._

Okay.

 _He'd certainly never mentioned the pure-blood-Mudblood thing—_ And nor, more significantly _, she thought,_ has his father _—so she could only assume that the Malfoys, upon closer acquaintance with Voldemort's total bat-shit craziness, had somewhat modified their beliefs._

**——Thursday——**

“What're you doing?”

Since it was obvious that she was getting dressed, Hermione took her husband's question to be rhetorical. 

Malfoy pushed himself up on his elbows; from the corner of her eye, Hermione saw the silken bed sheet slide down his muscular torso. “ _Hermione?_ ”

“I want to go back and check the rocks,” she said, pinning up her hair, “to see if there's any sign of...” 

He was beckoning to her and, against her better judgement, she sat down beside him, perching on the edge of the bed. “You _must_ have heard it, Draco—last night—when we were... You know...”

“Mmm...” Smiling, her husband reached out and brushed back her stray curls; Hermione saw the sheet move, where it lay over his lap. “Must have heard what?” His fingers were tracing the curve of her cheek, and he ran his thumb lightly over her lips.

“The _singing_ , Draco.”

“Mmm.” With his other hand, he drew the sheet aside.

“Oh god, Draco...” Hermione pulled away. “Just let me go and have a look, down by the rocks,” she pleaded, “and, when I get back, we'll... Oh!” 

He'd grasped her hand, and brought it to his erection. “How about,” he said, regarding her with a sort of hungry fascination, “we make love first”—he twitched himself beneath her fingers—“and then we both go and take a look?”

Hermione had the sense to extract a promise from him before things went any further: “ _Swear_ to me that we'll go afterwards?”

“I swear.”

...

By the time her husband had finished with her, Hermione felt thoroughly _shagged_.

And she was convinced that everyone in the hotel lobby must know it, if not by the glowing sigil that was undoubtedly hovering over her head, then at least because of the way she was walking...

 _Though, given that this island is_ the _place for magical honeymoons_ , she thought, _every witch on it is probably walking funny_.

That thought gave her some comfort.

Her husband guided her past a knot of people in the Reception area, and out of the glass doors.

“Merlin,” he said, as they strolled along the beach, hand-in-hand, “you've exhausted me.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. It's pretty amazing.”

They'd reached the outcrop where they'd made love the previous night, and Hermione clambered up. “We were... about here,” she said, looking back at the hotel to get her bearings, “so”—she turned full circle—“the singing must have been, um—”

“Hermione...” 

Her husband climbed up beside her and, when their eyes met, his, pale and intense, bored into her with the promise of sex to come. 

_Not now, Draco_ , she thought. _Not in broad daylight_. “I thought you were exhausted?”

Malfoy grinned. “So where did this noise you heard come from?” he asked.

Hermione jerked her head backwards. “Over there, I think.”

“Let's go and have a look, then, shall we?”

...

“You're right,” he said, sweeping his wand back and forth over the rocks, “something _did_ happen here.”

“Can you tell what it was?” Hermione crouched down beside him; without either of them being aware of it, they'd both slipped seamlessly into their professional personae and, for the time being, were acting more like Auror partners than newly weds.

Malfoy shrugged. “I'm not sure...”

Hermione studied the glowing shapes revealed by his Detection Spell. They reminded her of something... She drew out her own wand, and cast a Luminall Spell.

“Shit,” said Malfoy. “That's...”

“Blood,” said Hermione. “A _lot_ of blood. Something—some big animal—bled out here, and then”—she cast another spell—“someone cleaned it up. What animals do they have on this island?” She turned. “Draco?” 

Her husband had disappeared.

“Draco? Where are you?” She rose to her feet and, using a hand to shield her eyes, scanned the beach, the sea, and the trail to the hotel, but the only person anywhere near her was a stranger.

“Have you seen my husband?” she called.

The stranger was a short, slight young man, though muscular, with dark, mocking eyes and a mass of glossy curls. He reminded Hermione of a statue she'd seen in the British Museum. 

He shook his head and, still smiling, climbed up onto the rocks beside her.

“A beautiful woman should not be on the beach alone.” His accent gave his words a musical lilt. Hermione assumed he was one of the waiters—the type who seduced a new girl, or a new guy, every week. “What is he like, this husband?” he asked.

“He's tall,” she said. “And blond. He looks...” Oh, it was ridiculous! “He was _here_! Just here! A moment ago! You _must_ have seen him!”

“Do you love him?”

“What?” The question was inappropriate, and Hermione had no intention answering it, but the young man's knowing eyes seemed to goad her into protesting: “Of course I... I mean, it's early days yet, and I...”

“Early days. Do you think that is how love works?”

Hermione frowned. “Well, I think...” She'd read a lot of Muggle literature on arranged marriages and had been encouraged by the anecdotal evidence. “Yes, I think it can.”

“Hermione!” 

She heard her husband's voice, and turned to see Malfoy looking up at her from the beach. 

She went to the edge of the rock; he reached up, she reached down, and—him grasping her waist and her putting her hands upon his shoulders—she let him lift her down. She landed too close, her breasts brushing his chest and, still a little shy of him, despite their almost constant lovemaking, she looked away. 

“Where _were_ you, Draco?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Where were _you_?” he replied. 

She looked up at him then, and they shared another moment of awkwardness before he leaned in, and kissed her.

Hermione closed her eyes. 

Touching; kissing; sex; none of it was unpleasant. 

_It just feels strange_.

By the time her husband released her, the waiter had gone, and—although she wasn't sure why—Hermione decided to keep their conversation to herself.

...

They returned to the hotel to find the place in chaos—a crowd of guests was watching the manager try to calm an hysterical young witch, whilst two Greek Aurors, dressed in the international uniform of breeches, boots and long duster coat, looked on.

“What's happening?” Hermione asked one of the spectators.

“Her husband's run off and left her,” the woman replied, “on their honeymoon. Well, what can you expect when they pass a law forcing people to marry against their blood?”

Hermione glanced at her own husband.

“Do Aurors usually investigate missing persons in Greece?” asked Malfoy.

The woman shrugged. “Dunno. I think the manager's just covering himself—the wife says something Dark happened out there on the rocks. But _they_ ”—she nodded towards the Aurors—“don't seem—”

“Oh god!” said Hermione. “We'd better tell them, Draco.”

“Tell them what?” He grabbed her arm and held her back. “That we were shagging on the beach, and you heard violins?”

“No, about the blood we found! Obviously,” she added, softly, “if they ask, I'll say we were _walking_ on the beach. And, I'm sorry, Draco, but what I heard had nothing to do with your”—she mouthed the final word—“shagging.”

He let her go.

“Sir...” She approached the Greek Aurors, and formally introduced herself and her husband as British colleagues. “We're here on honeymoon,” she explained, “but I believe we may have found the crime scene.” Briefly, she described what she'd heard the previous night, and the traces she and Malfoy had found that morning. “We can show you.”

The two men accompanied them to the rocks, and thanked Hermione politely when she cast her Luminall Spell and showed them the blood but, as she and Malfoy were walking back to the hotel, she was in no doubt that they had merely been humouring her, and had no intention of investigating further.

...

That night, Hermione found herself watching her husband in the wall mirror—his pale back arched, his lean buttocks working hard... She closed her eyes, and tried to focus on the _feel_ of him, filling her, teasing the most sensitive part of her. She was _almost_ —

“I'm coming,” he gasped, “coming, coming...”

“No...”

“Yes.” 

“No, Draco”—she grasped his biceps—“not yet, _please_!”

But his groan told her he was already too far gone, and she fell back on the bed in dismay.

_Hermione had been studying Magical Law when she'd received her Ministry letter, and it was Harry who'd persuaded her that she could do more good as an Auror than as a lawyer._

_She'd been surprised, on her first day of training, to find that Malfoy had also been recruited. They'd never worked together, but she was aware of his reputation as a good man to have at your side in a tight corner._

**——Friday——**

“We have to do it ourselves, Draco,” said Hermione, the moment her husband woke up.

“Mmmm?” Malfoy rolled onto his side, and reached for her.

“I'm serious, Draco,” she said, avoiding his hands.

“Serious 'bout what?”

“About investigating. We're British Aurors, and it's a British wizard who's disappeared. I'm going to talk to the widow. Then we're going to go back to the rocks, and see if we can find any proof that the blood's her husband's.” 

Hermione's own husband's only response to that was to swing his leg over her. The sheet slipped from him— _Damned silk_ , she thought—giving her a wife's-eye view of him, lean and muscular, and of his cock and balls, standing out so hard and tight they scarcely seemed part of him.

“Just once,” she said.

Smiling, Malfoy leaned in, and kissed her.

His body was heavy on hers. Hermione spread her legs wide, opening herself up to take him. He sank into her as if she'd been made to fit him, and began to thrust, and she tried to move with him, her arms around his neck.

...

Hermione found the abandoned wife in bed, sitting forlornly in the middle of the vast, white space, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She looked small and frail and scared, and Hermione—remembering how _she_ had just spent the past hour with her own husband—felt a terrible pang of guilt.

She introduced herself as an Auror and explained that, although she had no official status on the island, she—being concerned that the Greek authorities were not treating the case seriously—would, with the wife's permission, try to find out what had happened to her husband.

“Thank you.” The wife managed a sad smile.

“Tell me everything you can,” said Hermione, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “In your own time.”

The woman wiped her wet face. “The Ministry,” she said, “brought me and Colin together but, for us, it was love at first sight. We had a wonderful wedding, and we both used all of our savings to come here on honeymoon...”

She broke down in a fit of sobbing. 

Hermione moved to the bed and, with an arm around her, listened patiently as the woman poured out her heart, expertly sifting through the halting half-sentences, trying to separate the hard fact from the misery. One word, she noticed, was repeated again and again— _disappeared_ —and Hermione soon began to suspect that the woman meant it literally.

“Are you saying you _saw_ your husband disappear?” she asked. “As though he'd Apparated? Or maybe used a Portkey?”

“He was there one minute,” the woman sobbed, “and gone the next. I only looked away for a moment.”

Hermione felt a shiver of recognition. “Did you search for him?”

“Of course I did. I even asked the waiter to help me, but he—”

“The _waiter_?” Hermione's anxiety increased. “Can you describe this waiter?”

The woman was vague, but Hermione was reasonably sure that they'd both seen the same man. _Could he involved?_ she wondered. _Could it be his job to distract the wife whilst someone else grabs the husband? But why? And what happened with Draco?_ She thought back to her own encounter with the strange young man. 

“Did this waiter say anything to you?” she asked. “Something you thought odd?”

“He asked me if I loved Colin,” the woman sobbed.

“And you told him that you did.”

“Yes. Very much.”

Hermione felt a surge of pity. “Is there anyone I can contact for you?” she asked. “Family, or a friend? You really shouldn't be on your own at a time like this. I could arrange a Portkey...”

“Thank you.” The woman sniffed. “But I'd rather be alone.” 

She picked up a framed photograph, showing herself and her husband, a pleasant-looking young man with a shock of brown hair and heavy-framed spectacles, kissing passionately. 

The wife clasped the photograph to her chest and, crying, rocked back and forth.

“If you need anything,” said Hermione, gently, “anything at all, just send for me.”

...

Malfoy was waiting on the hotel's shady terrace, a glass of something long and cool in his hand. With his unconventional good looks, his air of self-confidence, and his spotless silk shirt and trousers, he looked, Hermione thought, like a Muggle celebrity. 

She pulled out a chair and sat down beside him.

He waved for a waiter, and ordered her a cocktail and a selection of _meze_. 

“I've been talking to one of the maids,” he said.

“And?”

“And this isn't an isolated incident. At least three men have disappeared in the past month.”

“ _Three!_ ”

Malfoy nodded. “Eleni, the maid, has only been working here for a couple weeks—apparently, no one works here for long—but she's heard rumours that men have been disappearing for years. The maids are warned to keep _schtum_ if they don't want the sack. I had my work cut out getting her to talk.”

Hermione could easily imagine the smiles and the flattery he'd employed, and the pang of jealousy she felt took her by surprise.

“Sickle for your thoughts,” said Malfoy.

“I'm wondering why _you_ didn't hear what _I_ heard, the other night.”

“I was a bit busy.”

Hermione remembered their lovemaking, and the way her struggles had seemed to excite her husband and intensify his climax, and then she thought of her encounter with the waiter the following day, and his strange questions... Connections were beginning to form at the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite bring them into focus. 

“I need another look at those blood stains,” she said.

“Have some lunch first,” said her husband, firmly. “You don't eat enough.”

...

“What did the wife have to say?” asked Malfoy, later, as they were walking, hand-in-hand, along the beach.

Hermione gave him a brief summary.

“And you say _you_ spoke to this waiter, yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“That's the thing,” she said. “It was when you disappeared.”

“ _You're_ the one who disappeared, Hermione.” He was silent for a moment. Then, “Just where did you go with this waiter?”

“ _I_ didn't go anywhere, Draco. _I_ was on top of those rocks, in full view of anyone on the beach or on the hotel terrace. Where did _you_ go?” 

Then, without waiting for his answer, she cried, “Merlin, we're idiots! We need to talk to the waiter!”

...

The hotel manager was not impressed by their British Auror credentials, but Malfoy managed to obtain his co-operation by threatening to tell all of his rich friends that the hotel was substandard.

The manager assembled his male staff in the dining room, and asked the man who had spoken to Hermione to make himself known, but no one came forward and, when Hermione walked through the ranks, she could not pick him out.

“Shall we ask the wife to take a look?” Malfoy suggested.

Hermione shook her head. “I think that would destroy her...”

By the time they'd admitted defeat, it was supper time.

“D'you fancy a walk?” said Malfoy, afterwards, as they were waiting for the lift back to their floor. He was looking at her in that intense way he had, and it didn't take a genius to work out what he had in mind.

“Do _you_ fancy getting yourself slaughtered, mid-orgasm?” she said, exasperated.

“Merlin, woman, you really know how to kill the mood!” He dropped her hand and stalked off, up the stairs. By the time Hermione had caught up with him, he was already back in their room, sitting on the bed.

“You don't like it, do you?” he said, as she closed the door.

“Like what?”

“Sex, Granger! Fucking _sex_!”

Hermione was shocked by his anger. “This is _not_ about sex, Draco,” she said. “It's about you wanting to do something really stupid, when you know that something's going on out there! And, anyway,” she added, crossly, “I don't know what you're talking about. I always do what you want in bed.”

“ _You give in to me!_ Can't you see that's not the same thing as _wanting_ me? I keep fucking you, thinking I'll get through to you eventually, but I've never known a woman so—so— _oh, forget it!_ ” 

They sat on either side of the bed, backs turned to each other, like bookends.

Hermione was the first to crack, for—when her attempts to mount a legal challenge to the Marriage Law had come to nothing, and she'd finally accepted that she had no choice but to marry a pure-blood—she'd vowed to make her marriage work. She turned, reached out, and tentatively touched her husband's hand.

“Teach me, Draco,” she said. “I'm a quick learner.”

...

Hermione was on all fours with her husband behind her, his hands grasping her hips, his cock—big, hard and, she had to admit, sort of fascinating—thrusting in... and in... and into her.

She remembered the song she'd heard on the rocks, with all its deadly beauty, and...

 _Oh my god_ , she thought. _Of course!_

**——Saturday——**

“Merlin, Hermione, I was just about to come looking for you!” 

Malfoy was half out of bed, one foot on the floor, one well-muscled leg exposed. “ _Where've you been?_ ”

“I left a note.” 

She nodded towards a piece of parchment lying on the bedside table. “I got up early to speak to Harry over the hotel Floo. And I think we've worked out what's going on.” 

She showed Malfoy an extremely battered copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. “I borrowed this from Harry, to show to you. Listen...” 

She sat down beside her husband and, ignoring his obvious annoyance, flicked through the book until she'd found the entry she was looking for. “ _The manticore is a highly dangerous Greek beast with the head of a man, the body of a lion, and the tail of a scorpion. As dangerous as the Chimaera, and as rare, the manticore is reputed to croon softly as it devours its prey. Manticore skin repels almost all known charms and the sting causes instant death._

“And then there's this...” She flicked back several pages. “Yes, here it is: _Manticores are capable of intelligent speech but will attempt to devour any human that goes near them_.” She emphasised the final phrase.

“Fucking hell,” said Malfoy. 

“Unfortunately, Harry's got no idea how to deal with it”—she set the book aside—“and the Greek Aurors aren't interested so, basically, we're on our own. I went into town—”

“The town's Muggle.”

“It's not _catching_ , Draco. The book says that manticore hide's impervious to charms, but I had a idea.” She reached into her little, beaded bag and brought out a gun-shaped object. “ _This_. It's called a Taser. Police—they're like Muggle Aurors—”

“I know what police are.”

“Of course you do. Well, a lot of police forces use Tasers as a non-lethal alternative to guns. And some countries allow civilians to carry them for self defence.”

“So they sell them in the town?”

“Um... No. I, er, I sort of borrowed this one. From the police station.”

“You stole it.”

“I'll return it the moment we've finished with it.” 

“I don't believe—” 

“A Taser,” Hermione interrupted, “uses electricity to make the muscles contract involuntarily—it's as if the person you've shot's having some sort of seizure. It's a physical process, so I don't see any reason why it shouldn't work on a manticore.” 

Her husband was looking at her with a mixture of disbelief and grudging admiration. “Okay,” he said, “so you've reduced the thing to a quivering heap. What then?”

“Well, the effect doesn't last long, so we'll have to bind it. Then we'll hand it over to the Greek authorities, and they can take it to some uninhabited island, where it can't do any more harm.”

“You do realise that would be a death sentence—that it would starve?”

“Oh.” Hermione _hadn't_ realised that. “Well... Maybe they can feed it with something else... Sheep. Or cattle.” She opened her little, beaded bag and put the Taser away.

“What's that other thing?” said Malfoy.

“This?” Hermione pulled out an enormous, purple-covered bar, and passed it to him. “It's chocolate. I bought it in the town.”

Malfoy read out the label slowly, as though it were written in a foreign language: “ _Cadbury's Dairy Milk_... What does _one K G_ mean?”

Hermione grinned. “Two point two pounds! I had to buy it; it's the biggest bar I've ever seen!” She took it back from him, opened the wrapper, pulled off a chunk and popped it in her mouth. “Mmm. Wan' some?”

Her husband shook his head. “It's gone soft.”

“Your loss.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Malfoy threw back the sheet, swung his other leg out of bed, and stood up. He was completely naked— _Naturally_ , thought Hermione—though not, for once, aroused. 

“Was Potter surprised to get a call from you on your honeymoon?” he asked, scratching his chest as he padded over to window. He drew the gauzy curtain aside, and looked out. 

Hermione, who had, unconsciously, been admiring her husband's physique, answered warily: “No...”

Malfoy sniffed and, letting her obvious lie pass, went into the bathroom, leaving her slightly worried that, for the first time since their wedding, he hadn't wanted to have sex with her. Surreptitiously, she watched his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he stepped into the shower, turned it on and, standing in the flow of water, soaped his perfect body. 

...

“The Greek Aurors must know it's a manticore,” said Hermione, as they sat down to breakfast. “I'm surprised they're not hunting it themselves.”

“Oh, Granger!”

“What?”

“It's a legendary beast from the dawn of their history. It'll have five-star protected status. They're not going to touch it with a ten foot wand.” He poured her a glass of pumpkin juice.

“It's _killing_ people, Draco.”

“And they're obviously hushing it up. I wouldn't be surprised if the widow's been Obliviated by now. And they've probably contacted someone in the British Office to do the same to the families.”

“Harry would never allow that,” said Hermione. She saw the expression on his face. “He wouldn't, Draco!”

“Okay,” he said, drizzling a spoonful of honey on his yoghurt, “he wouldn't.” He changed the subject: “So how're we going to do this?”

“You're saying you'll back me up?”

“Well,” he said, around a mouthful of yoghurt, “if I don't, you'll do it anyway, won't you? And then I'll be left with a blood stain instead of a wife.”

“Actually,” said Hermione, leaning forward, “I don't think so.”

“What d'you mean?”

She leaned closer, and spoke very quietly: “According to your maid, all the victims have been men, right?” 

“Right.”

“Well, at first, I thought, _men_. On honeymoon.” She gave her husband a significant look.

Malfoy frowned.

“ _Sex_ ,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“Men, on honeymoon, having _sex_ —full of testosterone, secreting tons of prolactin, and serotonin and, um, vasopressin, every time they have an orgasm.” Hermione had carefully researched the male orgasm in preparation for marriage. “So I was thinking that, maybe, to the manticore, male hormones are like a special seasoning. But then I started wondering why it didn't take you.”

“When we got separated?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And,” she said, “the only thing I could think, was that it was something I said to the man—the one I thought was a waiter. I think he vets the manticore's victims, and—”

“You do a lot of thinking, don't you?” Her husband's eyes narrowed. “Merlin, what did you say to him? _You said I was crap in bed, didn't you?!_ ”

“No! No, of course not! But he, um, he asked me if I loved you, and I said... I said that it was early days yet, whereas I know the other woman said that she _loved_ her husband. So maybe it's falling in love that makes a man... tasty.”

Malfoy gave her a long, thoughtful look. Then he said: “So let me see if I've got this right—you're saying that you'll be safe because the manticore doesn't eat women, and that I _may_ be safe, either because I'm crap in bed—”

“Draco! You know, as well as I do, that you're not—”

“— _or_ because you don't love me?”

“I _like_ you, Draco...”

“Don't forget,” he said, coolly, “that the manticore has a sting. So, even if it doesn't fancy eating you, Granger, it may still kill you.”

...

The beast's killing ground was well-chosen, screened from the hotel, and from anyone walking on the beach, by low ridges of rock.

Hermione stood at its centre, hands on hips, scanning the outcrop, looking for somewhere she and Malfoy might conceal themselves. “It mustn't be too far away...” she muttered.

“Hermione!”

She turned to see her husband fishing something out from between the rocks; he held up a cracked and twisted pair of heavy-framed spectacles. “Not sure how we missed these before.”

“They're definitely Colin's. I saw him wearing them in his wedding photograph.”

“That's it, then,” said Malfoy, sealing the spectacles in a Wrapping Charm and stowing them in his pocket. “Proof positive that _Colin_ got gobbled up on his honeymoon.” Then he added, under his breath, “And not in a good way. Despite being loved.”

Hermione, meanwhile, had spotted a recess in the cliff wall. She cast a Bedazzling Hex across the entrance, and her husband added a Parasol Charm overhead—“We Malfoys burn”—then, equipped with a picnic basket, they settled down to watch.

“This could take days,” Malfoy grumbled. “And what happens when it gets dark?”

“We use these.” Hermione rummaged in her little, beaded bag and brought out a cardboard box. “I bought two pairs from the hotel gift shop.”

Her husband took the box from her, and read the label: “ _Om_ noct _ulars. Specially designed for night-time viewing_. So the hotel sells Peeping Tom equipment?”

“They're for watching wildlife,” said Hermione.

“Yeah. I'm sure they are. Look, there's no way I'm staying here all night, Granger.”

Hermione shook her head. “You won't have to. We know the manticore hunts during the day—Colin and you both disappeared in daylight. The Omnoctulars are just a precaution.” She brought out her chocolate bar, unwrapped it, and broke off a piece. “Want some? I've put a cooling charm on it.”

Her husband sighed. “I might as well.”

...

Malfoy had fallen asleep.

Hermione, on lookout, was thinking about the magic the manticore and its... servant—or master?—were obviously using. How would the separation that she and Malfoy had experienced appear to an outside observer?

Would an outsider see both parties, searching for each other as though in the dark? 

Would an outsider see the 'waiter'?

Or would an outsider see nothing?

She wondered if the manticore itself was camouflaged, somehow, so that it could hide amongst the rocks, and ambush its prey...

_If we hear it singing, we'll know we're too late._

“What we need to look for,” she thought aloud, “is a woman in distress.

“Whatever we may or may not see happening on the rocks, the wife will, at some point, head back to the hotel _in distress_. Then Draco and I can move in, and blast the place with every Revealing, Protection Dismissing, and Stealth Sensoring Spell in our armoury.”

“Mmm. Clever, Granger,” her husband sighed, sleepily.

And, despite the distance she'd felt open up between them since she told him what she'd said to the waiter, his compliment made her ridiculously happy.

**——Sunday——**

“ _Hermione_ ,” he murmured, and—warm and aroused—he entered her sleepily, with the sort of sigh she imagined an addict might make when the drug hit his veins.

There was something empowering about the way her husband wanted her— _needed_ her—and she'd begun to like the feel of him, thrusting inside her, filling her. 

She moved beneath him, trying to get herself into the position she'd enjoyed before...

“Shit,” he gasped and, suddenly wide awake, he reared up—back arched—and drove himself deep into her, grinding—

 _Oh god_ , thought Hermione. _Yes, Draco! Do it like that! Like that!_

“I'm coming,” he groaned. “Mmmm, Merlin- _fuck_ YES...”

His eyes froze wide in shock and Hermione, grasping his forearms, felt a warm wetness pour out of him and flood her innards, and her pussy quivered in sympathy.

...

After an early breakfast, they tramped out to their hiding place and settled down to watch. 

Malfoy was in an exceptionally good mood; Hermione was not. 

For the hundredth time, it seemed, she checked the Taser, making sure that the cartridge was secure and that a second cartridge was safely clipped beneath the grip. She'd been practising removing and replacing the cartridges, and had come to the conclusion that the Taser was pretty much a one shot deal—she _might_ manage a second shot, but it would take her up to half a minute to reload, and that was if she was very, very lucky and didn't drop the second cartridge, or blow her own hand off.

 _I must_ not _miss with that first shot..._

“Hermione,” said Malfoy, suddenly, “give me a pair of Omnoctulars.”

Hermione looked up at the sky. “It's not dark...”

“No, it's not, Mrs Know-it-all. But you're not the only one who can have a clever idea.” 

Hermione handed him a box.

“I was reading the instruction scroll,” he said, taking the glasses out of the box, “whilst you were in the shower. And, apparently, these work by detecting differences in heat and transfiguring them into a picture, so...” He scanned the rocks. “Yes! Look! Over there!” 

With a smug smile, he passed the glasses to Hermione.

Hermione looked.

The image was blindingly bright, and she had to screw up her eyes to see it properly, but—“Oh, my god!”—the manticore was perfectly visible, sunning itself upon the rocks like a big cat, its huge head resting on its massive paws, its scorpion's tail erect. “It must have been there all the time! God, it's horrible!”

She lowered the Omnoctulars, memorised the manticore's position relative to the rest of the outcrop, then raised the glasses again to check. “We've got it, Draco!”

“And without having to find some stud to use as bait,” he replied. “Okay,” he continued, “I'll go in first to draw its attention, you follow and use your... Muggle thing.”

“Taser,” said Hermione, unpacking her own pair of Omnoctulars. “Be careful, Draco—remember you're a man.”

“Yeah, sometimes, I forget—you ready?”

“Nearly.” Hermione looped the Omnoctulars over her head; she would have to hold the glasses in her left hand and shoot the Taser one-handed. “Draco, if I miss, or if the shock doesn't affect it—”

“I'll get clear, and use my wand.”

“Good luck.”

Her husband shot her a genuine smile. “You too, Hermione. Okay, I'll go first.”

They sprinted across the rocks in perfect formation.

“Hey!” Malfoy yelled, waving his wand hand. “Look! Look at me! Over here! I'm over here!”

Hermione had sighted the beast through her Omnoctulars, and was trying to aim her Taser into its enormous mouth—

“You have come back,” said a voice.

Hermione froze.

“Do you love your husband?”

She turned slowly. Malfoy had disappeared, and in his place stood the strange young man. 

And, in that moment, Hermione _knew_ —knew that she was right about the manticore's appetite; knew that, this time, her husband was in danger.

Calmly, she aimed the Taser at the young man, and shot him.

...

“Hermione!”

“You disappeared!” she cried.

“So did you!” 

Her eyes were fixed upon the manticore, which—now that it had lost its companion's magical protection—was visible to the naked eye, but she could hear her husband scrambling towards her. “This is the waiter, is it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good shot.”

“Thanks.” Still watching the manticore, she slipped her little, beaded bag off her shoulder, and tossed it to her husband. “There's a length of Inescapable Rope in there,” she said. “Tie him up and cast a Dampening Curse on him.”

“Okay.” She heard him searching through her things. “I'm not even going to ask you why you brought some Inescapable Rope on your honeymoon... Ah, here it is.”

Hermione, meanwhile, had discarded the spent Taser cartridge and loaded the spare. She raised the weapon. 

“Do you understand me?” she asked the manticore.

The beast shook its head and shoulders and, growling, exposed two wide rows of triangular, shark's-like teeth; at the same time, it lifted its tail, threateningly.

“I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to leave this place. Go far away from the hotel”—she moved closer—“go somewhere where you can live on sheep or cattle. Stop eating newly weds.”

The manticore watched her edge closer and closer... 

Then it swung its head towards Malfoy, and drooled.

Hermione squeezed the trigger.

The probes shot out; one entered the beast's mouth, but the other skittered over its lip, and fell.

The manticore leaped.

“Hermione!” yelled Malfoy, barrelling into her. “Protego!” 

He seized her arm and hauled her backwards—“Protego!”—fending the beast off—“Protego!”—by casting a Protection Spell at every step—“Protego! Protego!” 

They'd almost reached the safety of their hideout, when one of them tripped, and they both went down.

“Fuck!” Malfoy cried; Hermione realised he'd dropped his wand. “Protego!” he bellowed, hurling a wandless spell.

“Draco,” she croaked, “look!”

The manticore had found her little, beaded bag and was snuffling inside. 

Malfoy rolled to his knees, scrambled to his feet and, pulling Hermione up, bundled her towards the hideout. 

They climbed inside and, from its narrow confines, they watched the manticore devour Hermione's chocolate, her diary, and a box of tampons. Then it padded over to its unconscious companion and sniffed at him.

“What do we do now?” said Malfoy.

“We wait,” said Hermione. 

“For what, exactly?”

“For someone in the hotel or on the beach to spot the manticore, raise the alarm, and bring the Greek Aurors.”

“Wonderful. You do realise they'll probably prosecute us for hunting an endangered species—that is, if they don't feed us to it.”

“Feed _you_ to it,” said Hermione. She turned to her husband, grinning. He was looking particularly handsome, with his hair all tousled and his muscular chest, beneath his torn shirt, all sweaty and smeared with dirt, and she leaned in...

Then something behind him caught her eye. “Look,” she said.

The manticore was lying on its side, breathing in great, chest-heaving gasps, a pinkish foam dribbling from its mouth. 

Cautiously, the couple left their hideout and approached it, just in time to watch it expire, and see its body crumble to dust, and the dust blow away on a magical breeze.

...

“It must have been the chocolate,” said Hermione, poking a fragment of purple foil with the toe of her sandal. “It's bad for dogs as well.”

“What're we going to do with _him_?” said Malfoy, nodding towards the beast's still-unconscious companion. 

“We'll untie him,” said Hermione. “The Greek authorities are never going to admit what was going on here, so we may as well set him free ourselves.”

**——Monday——**

Hermione had spent most of the night standing at the window, gazing out across the bay, thinking about her husband, and everything she'd realised when the manticore had threatened him.

She heard him wake up with a sigh: “Hermione...”

“Do you like me, Draco?” she asked.

“Mmm...?”

She turned. “I know you like making love to me, but do you _like_ me?”

“Merlin.” He rubbed his face. “You're my wife, Hermione.” 

“I know. But do you actually enjoy my company? If you weren't screwing me, would you choose to spend your time with me? Or would you prefer to be with someone else, like—I don't know—Pansy Parkinson? Or one of your male friends—”

Her husband pulled the sheet aside and swung his feet to the floor. His body, bathed in early morning sunlight, was beautiful, and the sight of him made Hermione shiver. 

Malfoy held out his arms to her. “Come on,” he said. “You're cold.”

Hermione stayed where she was. 

“Come _here_.”

She gave in, and he pulled her onto his lap, and wrapped his arms around her. “We,” he said, “are _married_. And we will make a go of it, just like Mother and Father have. We'll have a child—”

“I don't want that.”

“You don't want a child?”

“I don't just want to make a go of it, Draco. I want to _love_ my husband. And I want my husband to love me. If you don't love me, what's to stop you cheating on me? Or dumping me when someone else comes along?”

Malfoy shrugged. “If _you_ don't love _me_ , Hermione, why does it matter?”

“Because I _want_ to love you, Draco,” she said. “I want us to love each other.”

Her husband looked at her, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Well,” he said, “as it happens, this isn't an arranged marriage, Hermione. Not for me.”

“What do you mean?” 

He reached up and, affectionately, tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Remember how Mother came to see you?” 

“Yes...”

“She came because I asked her to. I'd persuaded her to cast a Predilection Charm on you to, er, help you choose me.”

“You... Why?”

“Why d'you think?”

Hermione shook her head.

“Merlin, you're really going to make me say it, aren't you!” 

He hugged her close, and Hermione rested her head on his shoulder. “ _Why_ , Draco?”

“Because I don't like you, Hermione,” he said, “I love you—I've loved you for years.” He turned his head, and buried his face in her hair.

“You _really_ love me?”

“D'you think a Malfoy would lie about being in love with a Muggle-born?”

“No.” She was almost overwhelmed by the emotions she was feeling. “But a Predilection Charm's Dark Magic, Draco, and you're an Auror.”

“So now you have a hold on me.”

“Yes... And d'you know what I want from you?”

“Oh, Merlin. What?”

“I want us to call this honeymoon off. I want us to forget we ever came to this island. I want us to go somewhere else and start afresh. Do it again, and do it right. That's what I want.”

“You sure? I mean, who knows what we might find on another island? Hm? A Sphinx? A Chimaera? Wouldn't it be better just to stay here, and practise making love until you're enjoying it as much as I am?”

Hermione laughed. Something deep inside her—something very real and very physical—was telling her that it wasn't going to take much more practise to achieve that...

“D'you know what, Draco?” she said. “I think that's an excellent plan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Because the prompt wasn't originally intended for a Dramione fest, **ally_147** referred to Hermione's _husband_ , which, in a Dramione context, immediately suggested a certain type of relationship, and the story became a Marriage Law fic. 
> 
> The description of the manticore is based on two amazing artworks by **caberwood** , [Manticore](http://caberwood.deviantart.com/art/MANTICORE-Manticora-Anthrophagus-Horribilius-410557424) and [Manticore Trophy Head](http://caberwood.deviantart.com/art/Manticore-Trophy-Head-465099908). 
> 
> The Taser prompt gave me some trouble! First, according to Wikipedia, ownership of Tasers is controlled and restricted pretty much everywhere except the US and the Czech Republic, but the Greek Police force uses them, so I decided to have Hermione behave slightly (but not wholly, I think) OOC. Secondly, it seems that a Taser only incapacitates a person for about five seconds, so I gave up trying to be realistic, and assumed that it renders Magical beings unconscious. Thirdly, I assumed that batteries work in a magical space.


End file.
